


Table d'Hote

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-05
Updated: 2001-11-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner and Krycek visit Toronto





	Table d'Hote

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Table d'Hote by Elizabeth

Title: Table d'Hote  
Author: Elizabeth  
Beta: Bertie  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Date: June 30, 2001  
E-Mail:   
Rating: explicit m/m fornication and other fun stuff  
Archive: ask first  
Summary: Skinner and Krycek visit Toronto  
Warnings: we still haven't got to dessert  
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys or the rights to them, I just play with them while they play with each other

* * *

Table d'Hote  
   
Skinner was about to go into the meeting when his cell phone rang. He turned back into the corridor to answer it privately. "Skinner."

Krycek's voice snapped, "Where the fucking hell are you?"

"About to go into a meeting."

"Dickhead. What city?"

"You say the nicest things to me."

There was a pause. An ominous silence. Then Krycek said slowly, "Don't you want me tonight?" His voice was harsh, subtly deepened, almost a purr underneath the knife-edge of it. A chill went down Skinner's spine.

"Toronto," he said. It was capitulation, pure and simple. Krycek probably knew how he was reacting - how his body was reacting, just to a disembodied voice on a cell phone.

"Okay," said Krycek efficiently. "I'm going to fuck you in Nathan Philips Square. Lucky man."

"Promises, promises."

"Four p.m. Be there."

"Or be square?"

His reply was the click of disengagement. He looked at the phone with satisfaction as he folded it and put it back into his pocket.

Seems he had himself a date.

* * *

His meetings were over at two. He had time for a shower in his room at the Royal Meridian King Edward - a place more luxurious than he would normally have chosen, but no other Toronto hotel had a room, so he succumbed to the inevitable luxuries. A shower, a shave - not to impress Krycek, what would be the point of that? It wasn't possible to impress Krycek.

On the other hand, it would do no harm to act as if it were possible. To act as he might with another man.

Not that he could imagine himself with another man. Who else could have this kind of power over him? And power freely given, at that.

At four o'clock he was sitting on a bench in Nathan Philips Square, watching the crowd. Tourists, businessmen, kids, pigeons. Vendors, buskers, vagrants. If there were alien bounty hunters among the passersby, he had no way of spotting them.

At five minutes after four, he began to fear Krycek wouldn't show. He fought disappointment, knowing that it was both stupidity and madness to believe Krycek's promises, even a promise as tenuous as the rendezvous he had made on the phone.

No use being rational about it. He wanted Krycek; his body wanted Krycek. If Krycek said he was coming and didn't show, it was because Krycek wanted him to react. Or possibly that Krycek wasn't as infallible as he liked to pretend. Or, most likely, Krycek just wanted to make him wait and wonder.

He had nothing to feed the pigeons with.

Behind him loomed the massive curved towers of Toronto's City Hall. To his left, the heavy neo-gothic arches of Toronto's Old City Hall. Ahead of him, traffic as fierce as anything in Washington, and gleaming mirrored buildings. Ottawa had been a fairy-tale city, but Toronto was a city that he could relate too: busy, crowded, modern, new, old, chaotic. You didn't necessarily feel safe in Toronto, and that gave him a sense of knowing where he was. Unsafe. Unsafe waiting for Krycek, who was ten minutes late and might even now be aiming at him like a sniper from one of the windows of one of the skyscrapers nearby.

If Krycek wanted him dead, he'd be dead already. Unless he wanted something else... Like possibly the same thing Skinner wanted: more sex.

He sensed Krycek before he saw him - smelled him, perhaps, though he could not consciously pin it down as a scent or a sound. Whatever it was, he did not jump when Krycek put his hands on his shoulders. He simply turned calmly and said, "Hello, Krycek."

Krycek dropped onto the bench beside him. "You can run but you can't hide."

"I'm hiding in plain sight. Why'd you phone? I thought you always knew where I was."

"I felt lazy." Krycek stretched his long legs in front of him, still in the tight jeans he'd been wearing all week. His T-shirt, worn without a jacket, had a few snags in it and was torn at the shoulder. It fit snugly over the torso, showing the hint of musculature, the suggestion of clavicle, the tantalizing certainty of nipples. "So, they sent you to Toronto, instead of going back home?"

"Uh-huh. Detour. Another meeting. It seems the enlightening testimony of Vasily Karpashin got the Canadians moving on a few things."

Krycek grunted. "A kick in the ass was all they needed. Are we going back to your hotel room?"

"No. I'm going to the art gallery."

Krycek looked at him directly, eyes widening in disbelief. "Did I hear right? You could take me to bed and you're going to an art gallery instead?"

"Yup." Skinner stood up. "Come with me."

"What the hell for?"

"Haven't you learned the pleasures of delayed gratification?"

Krycek's reply was tersely obscene. Skinner held out a hand to help him up, which Krycek ignored, scowling. Skinner eplained. "There's an exhibit from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. Art that has never left Russia before. I want to see it."

Krycek cursed under his breath, and stood up in one graceful movement. "Art is the sterile pastime of the bourgeoisie," he said.

"You're growling," said Skinner. He didn't wait for a reply but started to walk. He'd memorized the route: down Queen to University, down University to King....

Krycek was there, beside him, when he got to the corner of University and King. He didn't say anything. His hair, disordered, gave him a schoolboy look Skinner found endearing. He wanted to run this fingers through that hair. Later, he could do it later. Delayed gratification.

He bought Krycek's ticket for the exhibit. Krycek made no comment. They went into the gallery and up a long ramp. Across the wall where the ramp turned was a full mural photograph of the Hermitage, as if they were approaching the actual building. "Does it make you homesick?" asked Skinner.

"Why should it?" asked Krycek disingenuously.

They entered the exhibit rooms. Walls were covered with Flemish art, Rubens and Van Dyke, vistas and portraits. The room was filled with students and tourists. Krycek was a direct contrast: no one else wore a torn T-shirt, no one else evoked sensuality like a young Marlon Brando of the 21st century. Skinner itched to touch him, but kept his hands loose at his sides.

Delayed gratification? He'd only said it to get Krycek's goat, of course, but what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the other goose.... He forced his eyes back to the picture in front of them.

"Rubens," said Krycek, with a touch of scorn. "Soft."

Skinner looked critically at the painting. He quite liked Rubens' style. "If you say so."

"Not physically soft. Spiritually soft." Dismissively, Krycek wandered onwards. There was a room of 18th century curiosities - a stuffed ibis, tortoise-shells, an encased armadillo. Krycek looked at them with interest, and without comment. A painting of monkeys in a kitchen caught his eye. Gold- and silver-ware. Treasures of the ages.

He stopped in front of a portrait of a severe-looking man in black. "He reminds me of you," he said.

The man had thick black hair, and no glasses, and lace on his collar. "Why?" asked Skinner.

"Under all those clothes, he's well-hung."

"How do you know?"

Krycek grinned. "Trust me on this."

"Can't prove it, unless your alien friends have time travel. Do they?"

"They aren't my friends." Krycek had wandered ahead. "Ask your Foxy-boy."

"He isn't my boy," said Skinner, with echoing irony. He caught up to Krycek, who was contemplating a shepherdess in a landscape. As he stood beside him, Krycek touched his shoulder. One finger stroked his neck in a swift, feathery touch that Skinner felt to the soles of his feet.

Delayed gratification. Hell. Whose idea was that?

Krycek must have felt his shiver because he moved a little closer and said, "Back to the hotel now?"

"I thought," said Skinner carefully, "I would take you out to dinner first."

"Instead of fucking?" Krycek sounded appalled.

"Before fucking. We have to eat sometime, don't we?"

Krycek looked at his watch. "You making this into some kind of a date?"

Skinner felt annoyed. "Make it whatever the hell you like. If you don't want to have dinner with me, say so. I assume you eat occasionally, like other people. The invitation stands."

"I'll eat with you," said Krycek. "Why not? Where are we eating?"

"My hotel?"

"Which is?"

"The Royal Meridian King Edward."

"Fuck. I should have guessed. Okay. We meet there, we eat there, at six o'clock. I have something to do first."

"What?" asked Skinner, but he was pushing his luck too far. Krycek had disappeared.

* * *

At six, Skinner was waiting in the lobby of the Royal Meridian King Edward - called the King Eddie by natives, he was told. The severe painting of a monarch in fancy dress glaring down at him was probably of King Edward himself, though Skinner had no idea which King he had been. Another portrait in the stairwell was more recognizably the current Queen.

He was reading the Toronto Star. There was nothing, of course, about aliens. The world's best-kept secret.

At six on the dot, Krycek walked over to him.

Skinner stood slowly. Krycek was no longer wearing a torn T-shirt and skin-tight worn-out jeans. Krycek had acquired - somehow - a dinner jacket and suit that fit him exquisitely. He might have been James Bond, or, better yet, one of James Bond's wealthy enemies with good sartorial taste. His hair was barbered and shaped, his shoes shined, his hands manicured. It was Skinner who felt suddenly shabby beside him, knowing his own expensive clothes to be adequate but unglamorous, his shoes scuffed. Straight-backed and elegant, Krycek gave the impression of being an impeccable Gatsby, sharp-edged, louche, not Brideshead but not quite Cabaret either.

"Dinnertime?" said Krycek.

He walked before Skinner to the dining room, arrogance in his step. He said to the maitre d', "Skinner," and was taken politely to the table Skinner had, of course, reserved. The quiet, out-of-the-way table was decorated with one simple flower, neither too close to, nor too far from, the gentle trickling of the fountain.

Krycek sat as if he owned the place. A waiter asked if they wished a drink, and Krycek, without glancing at the wine list, ordered a bottle of Austrian wine Skinner had never heard of.

"You're staring," said Krycek, as the waiter left.

"I want to stare."

Krycek smirked. "Are you hard yet?"

"Of course."

"Good. Stay that way."

The waiter came back with the wine for the inevitable taste-test. Skinner let Krycek go through with the charade. Another guise, another game. Krycek knew it would turn him on. Was that why he was doing it?

When the waiter left, Skinner said, "You don't need to try to impress me, you know."

Krycek looked at him as if the idea were absurd. "You think I would?"

"You succeeded long ago."

Krycek grunted. The sound was pure Krycek, though visually it was a genteel grunt from the Lord of the Manor. "Don't want to impress you. Just want to fuck you."

"Good."

"You're the one who suggested dinner. Not me."

Skinner held his gaze, then turned to the menu. They chose, and ordered: a rack of lamb for Skinner, something with a French name for Krycek, which he ordered with a flawless European accent. Skinner sipped the dry white wine.

Krycek looked at his glass and said, "The difference between expensive booze and cheap booze is the quality of the hangover afterwards." He made the word "booze" sound esoteric and cultured.

They ate without conversation. Skinner's lamb was tender and fresh and perfectly cooked. One of the vegetables was fiddleheads, a Canadian delicacy he had never before tasted. Krycek's French dish looked like a casserole. He used the flatware perfectly, as far as Skinner could tell, like someone trained in fine etiquette. Perhaps he had been a waiter once. Or an actor.

Of course, he was always an actor.

Skinner asked, "Why are you here with me?"

"Because I was instructed to keep an eye on you."

"By whom?"

Krycek shrugged, a glint in his eye. "By them. The nameless, the powerful, the ones to whom I am currently of use."

"Bullshit," retorted Skinner.

Krycek took another sip of wine.

"They're of use to you, or you wouldn't waste time with them. You want me to think you're just their lackey? A pawn? Krycek, you're a player and you're using them. As always."

Krycek twirled the stem of his glass. He made a noncommital sound. He was clearly enjoying this.

"So why are you here?" Skinner persisted.

"To get laid."

"Why me?"

"Because you have the biggest cock I've ever met."

Flattering, but unconvincing. Skinner considered him thoughtfully. He thought he knew why Krycek wanted him: because, in a lifetime of power struggles and dangerous ploys, he was one man Krycek had met who was not afraid of him. God knows he ought to be: Krycek had the power to destroy his life, his career, his peace of mind, his reputation - had already destroyed his sanity, or so it seemed. Krycek could kill him at any moment, and he had no reason to think he wouldn't, except a blind, stupid faith.

Not love. He couldn't afford love.

But faith... seemed cleaner somehow, more permissible. Something possible to achieve and justify.

Krycek had found a lover who didn't fear him and that turned him on.

Krycek sustained his stare. Sometimes, silence made a person say more, elaborating what they had already said. The technique didn't work with Krycek.

Instead Krycek asked, "Why are you here, Assistant Director? Same question. Why do you want me? There was a time you'd kill me as soon as look at me. Now, I've gotten under your skin, obviously. But you accepted it. Why?"

"Why do you think?" asked Skinner.

"I think," said Krycek thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing, "it's because I'm not afraid of you. Everyone respects you, your position, your strength of character.... except me. To me, you're nothing but a mobile cock, and that excites you." He tilted his head, thinking of something else. "The risk gets to you, doesn't it? And you have the secret, stupid hope that you might be able to get to me. Make me turn. Make me confide in you. Make me care."

"Yeah, right," said Skinner, drily.

Krycek's eyes held challenge. "You still hard?"

"Harder."

"I'll make you harder than that before the evening is over. You'll want me so bad it'll hurt."

"Already happening."

Krycek nodded, satisfied. "Delayed gratification."

Skinner reached for his wine. He couldn't eat the rest of his dinner; delicious though the lamb was, his appetite was gone, except for Krycek. As his fingers spread around his glass, Krycek's hand wrapped itself around his hand on the glass so tightly that for a moment he thought the fine crystal would shatter to spread a fountain of mingled blood and wine on the tablecloth.

It didn't. Krycek's grip loosened, though he kept his hand wrapped around Skinner's. His hands were warm and unexpectedly smooth. He enquired, "Have we waited long enough?"

"Yes," said Skinner.

Krycek held his eyes a moment longer; let his hand linger before removing it with a gentle caress of fingertips.

Skinner didn't wait for the waiter to return. He left a few hundred dollars on the table to pay for the meal, and the wine, and the tip - none of which were ever going to appear anywhere near his expense account.

He followed Krycek to the elevators. They stood close, not touching. Skinner felt dizzy - not from wine, but from anticipation. He wanted to kiss the side of Krycek's neck, right here. He wanted to taste the edge of his ear, exposed by the neatly-combed hair.

The elevator came and Krycek stepped into it with a certain arrogance. He didn't push the button for the floor - of course, he didn't know which floor it was. Or did he? Krycek has his ways of learning anything, and might have taken the time before dinner to find out.

There was no one but them in the elevator. Skinner touched Krycek's cheek. Krycek looked at him with flinty eyes. Skinner kissed his lips so gently he could hardly feel the pressure. Krycek opened his mouth slighly. His taste made Skinner's head spin and his fingers dug deeply into Krycek's shoulder. He licked Krycek's lips, tasting saliva and wine heady spices.

Before he could forget himself and go further, the doors opened on the eighth floor. Skinner led the way to 873, slipped the keycard into the lock, and opened the door. The room was palatial, with a bed that fit its proportions. Krycek walked into the room. Skinner shut the door behind him and leaned against it. "I didn't order champagne," he said, half-ironic, half-regretful.

Krycek looked at him. "Strip," he said.

Skinner took of his jacket and tie, began to work on his buttons. For Krycek, this was, he supposed, the murmur of sweet nothings. "You too," he said.

Krycek grinned, his teeth wolfish. He tossed his head back and suddenly the neatly lacquered hair was tousled and wild: art deco transformed into manga. Skinner realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it.

Krycek took his shoes off without unlacing them, without touching them, kicking them across the room. He took of his jacket and tossed it to the chair. He unbelted his trousers without unzipping the fly, pulling the shirt-tails out of the waistband, and Skinner saw there was no zipper on the trousers, but buttons. He stepped closer.

Krycek grabbed his wrists, held them away. "No," he commanded. "Strip."

Skinner undressed. No show, here: Krycek was the performer, not him.

His feet bare, his tie loose, his shirt unbuttoned, Krycek lay on his back on the bed to watch Skinner undress. His hand disappeared into his trousers and for a fleeting second his face softened.

Skinner's own cock was getting in his way, making him clumsy. Naked, he made to hold it, but Krycek ordered, "No. Come here."

He walked to the bed, looking down at Krycek. He closed his hand over his cock and bent down to kiss Krycek's mouth. Krycek's hand went round the back of his head, holding him in place, gently, tenderly. Krycek talked tough but it was clear he liked to kiss.

Neither man spoke of it. Krycek released his head, but kept his hand lightly on the back of Skinner's neck. Fingers caressed his scalp. "I love how your head feels," he whispered.

"Which one?" asked Skinner, but Krycek didn't smile.

Instead of answering, Krycek asked, "What do you want to do?"

It sounded like a simple, genuine question. Krycek had never asked anything like that of him before. He had always taken what he wanted, given what he felt like. Surprised, Skinner raised his eyebrows. He took off his glasses - he'd been delaying that, because he liked to look at Krycek. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I want to fuck you. Slow. Hard. Long."

Krycek let go of him, leaving his hands loose against the headboard behind him, stretching his legs towards the foot of the bed, apart, flexing his hips in a slow and fluid motion.

"What position do you want me in?" Part of the waistband had fallen open, but only as far as the second button of the fly.

Skinner licked his lips. "On your stomach."

"Take care of the buttons," demanded Krycek.

Skinner reached down with one hand. First button. Second button. He could feel Krycek's cock underneath his fingers, hot and ready. Third button. Krycek's cock sprang free and Skinner said, "No underwear?"

"Why bother?" Krycek's eyes were mischievous. "I want you to wonder what I'm wearing all the time. Regardless of what you see..." He closed his eyes as Skinner kissed his cockhead as it tipped over the foreskin. "Shit."

"What?" Skinner caressed his cock and balls with firm, heavy strokes. His hands were large and strong, the right kind for this.

"Delayed gratification," said Krycek. He jumped up abruptly, pulling off the trousers, throwing them to the other side of the room. He dropped onto his stomach, widening his legs, squirming. "Do it."

Krycek never seemed to care about lube of any kind. Skinner cared. He went into the bathroom. "Hey!" cried Krycek. "Where in hell are you?"

"Delayed gratification," replied Skinner. He came back into the bedroom with the small bottle of body lotion that the hotel had so thoughtfully left. Krycek was rubbing his cock with his hand, and Skinner barked sharply, "Stop."

Krycek stopped with unexpected compliance. His face was contorted and he rubbed it against the pillow, catlike. "Now?" he enquired. Not a demand, not a command: a question.

Skinner rubbed the lotion on himself, then knelt between Krycek's legs and spread them further. "Keep your hands over your head," he commanded, and Krycek did. His breath was heaving. His asshole twitched in expectation and Skinner played with it with his mouth, rubbing lotion on Krycek's cock and balls, licking and opening him with his tongue. He wanted the taste of Krycek first, not a mouthful of hotel- perfumed goo.

Krycek whimpered with the pressure of Skinner's tongue. Krycek's muscles were powerful and his skin sensitive, there as elsewhere. Skinner ran the whole of his arm between Krycek's legs, lifting him, his hand splayed over his belly. Krycek's groaning became a soft keening.

Skinner braced himself, kneeling on the bed, caressing Krycek's leg and foot with his other hand.

Krycek hissed. "You have the biggest cock in the goddamn universe. Use it!"

Skinner spoke against the soft anal skin, breathing on it. "I take it you're ready for me."

Krycek cursed in Russian and Skinner thrust into him, long and hard and as far as he could go. Krycek's keening changed in pitch: not louder, not loud at all, but deepening into a resonant moan. Skinner pressed against him, holding his hips, letting Krycek's body adjust around him.

Skinner was trembling now, not from exertion but from sheer desire.

Krycek moved against him and he pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back inside him, increasing the power of his thrusts, changing the angle just a little, going slowly, then faster, then twisting a little, and holding it.

Holding it.

Krycek was rigid, his mouth open in total silence.

Skinner moved again, a dozen emotions filling him. Lust, possessiveness, a sense of conquest because this was Krycek underneath him. Krycek silently begged for more. Krycek the invincible needing and wanting him in this primal way. Overlaying all of that were more tender emotions. A fierce protectiveness, an overwhelming tenderness.

He wanted to fuck him forever. For hours, anyway; he could do it, he knew. He had the stamina. He had the strength. It was hard to keep from losing it, though, when Krycek glanced at him over his shoulder, his eyes misty with passion, his mouth curled into the grimace of a preying animal. Difficult to sustain it, when he saw Krycek's hands curl like fists against the pillow by his head, and pound the cloth. Even worse, when Krycek clenched his ass and moved his cock against Skinner's arm and hand, leaving a hot trail of wetness.

Then Krycek pushed himself up and back on his hands, and Skinner felt himself going. He muttered "No," but his body was shouting "Yes!" and he fought against what he most wanted and needed, the release that would bring an end to this escalating combat.

He wasn't ready to allow it. Cursing sharply, he put both arms under and around Krycek's arms, a full-Nelson which lifted him upright off the bed, adding his own weight to the weight of Skinner's thrusts inside him.

He made an odd, startled sound, and it was too late now for Skinner. He was coming inside Krycek's body with no control whatsoever. His arms released Krycek's arms and his hands wandered down his torso, grasping Krycek's still-hard cock while he felt himself softening, trying to hold it a moment longer, using his hands to bring Krycek to the edge and over it.

Krycek made a sound of sheer pleasure as his come spilled hot and wet over Skinner's hands, and Skinner held him, playing with his wet skin as they both collapsed slowly onto the bed.

Tremors eased.

Skinner felt a sudden awkwardness. Krycek was neither friend nor lover: what do you say to an enemy with whom you have just shared this amazing intimacy?

Nothing. There were no words.

But Krycek was looking at him, his eyes glittering with pleasure, and Skinner had to look back. He was sure his half-blind eyes revealed far, far too much. He didn't care. Later, he might care. Not now.

Krycek was never at a loss for words. "Hot damn," he whispered finally.

Skinner buried his head in Krycek's neck. "Yeah," he agreed. "Hot damn."

\- the end -

  
Archived: November 02, 2001 


End file.
